Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 44666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
His finger grazes an exposed peak, and the first flutter of need stirs at my core. He fastens the clamps with measured pressure, making my breath hitch at the bite. It’s a pain I know well now, fueling arousal while never dulling the sting of those pinchers.
“These are gorgeous on you.”
His dark, sensual praise shoots straight to my sex, a live wire I can’t fight. Like a carnival ride poised to drop, I’m a powerless passenger.
Oliver moves behind me and steps between my legs. The cords pull taut as he brings me closer, breath ghosting across the flesh of my thigh. Then his tongue finds me in slow, familiar strokes.
Even without the effects of the elixir rushing through my bloodstream, I have zero defense against this man. A violent jolt takes me, hips straining against the bindings.
Holy hell, denial scorches every nerve. Minutes in, I’m dripping for him, crazed for a release that won’t come.
“Please, sir.” The title escapes before I can swallow it.
He groans, thick with satisfaction. “That word was made for your lips.”
Then he doubles his efforts, clamping his teeth around my clit and shaking his head, wild and relentless. My stomach heaves, as if trying to purge the orgasm from my system, but the pressure only builds—an endless rush of blood that won’t stop.
I choke on a cry.
The room hums around us in cries, gasps, and the slap of flesh, but all I feel is him.
“I need to…please, Oliver!”
“That’s it, sweetheart.” His amusement vibrates against my flesh. “Beg like I said you would.”
“It’s too much,” I whimper.
“It’s not enough.” His tongue plunges into my opening, and I pant through raw, uncontrollable pleas.
In my delirium, I sense the tremor in his breath, the rough imprint of his fingers on my thighs. He moans against my mound, betraying the fracture in his control before abruptly veering back to yank on my restraints.
He spins me around and adjusts the cords until I drop a couple of feet, all gentleness gone. His zipper comes down in a rough tug, and then he’s guiding his cock to my lips, eyes hooded and crazed.
Something primal rises in me. I open without thought, starved for the taste of him, and he slides right in. His essence hits me first, a mere second to register the feral notes of his desire before he drags me down his length, holding me there for the longest seconds of my life.
“Relax your throat.”
I try. I do. But he’s thick and relentless, pushing deeper until I’m gagging around him.
“Fuck, yes, Novalee,” he grits out, teeth clenched as his pelvis grinds in sharp, rhythmic bursts. “Such a good fucking girl.”
Those obscene words do something to me.
I swallow him down, despite the gagging and drool escaping my bruised lips.
He locks my head in place, controlling the angle, setting an unapologetic pace as he claims my mouth and throat with complete abandon.
It’s not until he’s close, breaths ragged and muscles tight, that he pulls out. His swollen tip gleams wet, and I only get a glimpse of his impressive shaft before he whirls me around again.
Lube drips between my ass cheeks.
My breath snags on a shudder.
Oliver isn’t afraid to inflict pain, so I know it’s going to hurt. As the straps of my dress tilt my ass in his favor, I brace myself.
Just breathe.
His hands are warm and steady on my hipbones as he eases in the tip, allowing me precious seconds to adjust. But it’s not enough, and I’m unprepared when he impales me on his cock in one savage thrust.
We let out identical groans that live on opposite ends of the spectrum.
One born of pain.
The other of pleasure.
He takes me like a force of nature, as if he’s been running this scenario through his head every night for the last three weeks. He’s a master at leveraging my vulnerability, employing gravity to open me to every thick inch of him.
Each thrust drags a sobbing moan from my being, and I don’t know which is stronger—the burn or the need to fly.
The elixir keeps me skyward as he drives toward the finish line. He lets go of my hips and hauls me back with an arm across my stomach, his chest flush to my spine. His mouth finds my neck, breath scorching against my skin. Then he sinks his teeth into my shoulder, and that’s when I feel it.
The instant he lets go.
Still buried deep, he groans through the release, his growl vibrating on my collarbone as he brands me there with a kiss.
It’s a mark of ownership that stings more than it soothes.
Because virgin or not, in the middle of a deviant circle in a foreign land, I belong to Oliver Whitney.
For several moments, his breaths outpace the beats of my heart. Tension bleeds from his frame, his release still echoing through our joined bodies. His fingertip trails down my thigh, the touch tender before slipping away.